Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles by Margaret George
She would have laughed, had it not been so ironic and painful.
There had been no further word of Bothwell’s fate. She knew that he had been transferred to Copenhagen. The Lords had attempted to convince King Frederick that Bothwell should be delivered up to justice, but Frederick had continued to hold Bothwell. For what reason? As far as she knew, no ransom had been asked, and no one had approached her representatives, like the Archbishop of Glasgow, her trusted ambassador in France, with any demands. Why could Bothwell not escape, or talk his way out? She had written a letter to King Frederick protesting against Bothwell’s extradition, and managed to smuggle it out just before George had been banished. She had no way of knowing whether it had ever reached him. She also wrote to Bothwell, pouring out her pent-up feelings and bidding him to be of good cheer. Of her own troubles she said little, not wanting to cause him any more pain than he already had. She had even less idea of whether this letter ever reached its addressee.
George had told her there was a rumour that Bothwell had offered the Orkneys and Shetlands to Denmark in exchange for his freedom, and that Frederick had been interested, but that, in spite of Bothwell’s titles to them, he realized the Lords would have to recognize the transfer. Perhaps that was what was detaining Bothwell—perhaps Frederick was going to offer them Bothwell’s person in exchange for the islands.
In mid-April, just before Holy Week, Willie showed his ingenuity. He managed to bring Mary two precious letters. One was a copy of a letter Bothwell had written to Charles IX—so we are both throwing ourselves, begging, at his feet! thought Mary—and the other was just to her.
“They say his prison is not as bleak as yours,” Willie whispered, when they were walking together in the little kitchen garden. Some of the soldiers had been put to work turning the soil to ready it for planting. “He’s been moved to Malmö, in Sweden, to a castle there—the same room that housed Christian II of Denmark, a deposed tyrant. It is large and vaulted, so they say, and on a ground floor. They had to put extra bars on the windows in preparing it for Bothwell.”
So they knew his skill at escaping! Her heart sank a little.
Willie passed her two papers, and she quickly hid them in her sleeve. The soldiers seemed to be busy digging, but they were undoubtedly watching closely. She would have to wait until she was in the garderobe to read them.
“I miss George,” she said loudly enough to be heard.
“Yes,” said Willie. “I have heard that he plans to go to France. He says he cannot make his fortune here, and if he is to be banished, he prefers to go abroad, as at least there are new sights there.”
“Oh!” she gasped. To lose George, too! Then she saw Willie make a hint of a wink at her.
“His mother and father will be grieved,” Willie said. “But that is how young men are.”
* * *
That night she feigned stomach pains and a nausea that required her to spend an unusual amount of time in the garderobe of the tower. The hovering young girls were more solicitous of her health, and wanted to bring her cold compresses and stroke her forehead. Perhaps, she told them, but only after the most violent, purging stage of the attack was over. In the meantime, they should stay away, as it was an ugly sight.
In the dim light of her single candle, and while making false moans and retching noises, Mary unfolded the letters.
To His Most Christian Majesty Charles IX of France
Sire:
I left Scotland to let the King of Denmark hear the great and manifest wrongs done to the Queen of Scotland, his near kinswoman, and to me in particular. Intending thereafter in all diligence to seek Your Majesty, I have been cast by a storm on the coast of Norway and thence have come to Denmark. Here I found Monsieur de Dancay, your ambassador, to whom I have made full discourse of my affairs, praying him to acquaint you by express messenger, which he has promised. Not doubting the performance of his promise, I entreat Your Majesty very humbly to have regard to the good will to do you service that I have shown all my life, in which course I intend to continue. May it please you to honour me with such an answer as you would give to one who has no hope in any but Your Majesty, save in God.
Sire, I commit me very humbly to your good grace and pray Almighty God to grant you a happy and long life. From Copenhagen, the twelfth of November.
Your very humble and very obedient servant,
James, Duke of Orkney.
The twelfth of November past! Nothing had been done, no action taken by France. The letter, with its dignified appeal, had gained him nothing.
She emitted a long, low sound of suffering that was not feigned. The world was turning its back on them. And Frederick, she suddenly remembered, was one of Queen Elizabeth’s erstwhile suitors. England would have his ear.
She opened the other letter with trembling hands.
My dearest wife—
I write this as you once wrote me, almost as if I am speaking to myself, not knowing if you will ever see it, but in writing to you it is the same as writing to myself. For we are one. I feel that more strongly now than ever; even more so than when we were together.
So we are both in prison, being held against our wills. Yours is worse than mine, my beloved, for your gaolers are your enemies, whereas mine have nothing personal against me. In Bergen I was detained on local matters, and here I am held as a political pawn. I have hopes of being able eventually to convince them that they hold me to no purpose. No one will pay ransom for me, and I am of little political consequence now. My only use, which it grieves me to have failed, was to gain aid for you.
If it ever, in any way, would be of service to you to stop being my wife, then avail yourself of that avenue. It may be all I can render to you. But know that it is a political gift I bestow on you, not something I will ever honour in my heart, where you will always be my wife.
Be strong, and love me always, as I love you.
—James.
She bent over the little stool in the room and gave herself up to a storm of weeping.
* * *
Holy Week began with a rainy Palm Sunday. As they had no priest on the island, there was no way to celebrate the sacred days. Lady Douglas had suggested in a horrible inspiration that they invite John Knox to come and preach to them—a suggestion that fortunately was impossible, owing to Knox’s indisposition.
So Mary had to provide for her own means of honouring the days. She had her devotionals and book of hours, and requested that her household keep silence during the morning and evening, and fast, and that those of her faith join her in prayer and meditation.
The island was now wearing a new sheen of green, so bright it was vibrant. Each branch of the trees was covered in a translucent green mist, each tree having its own different shade; when the sun shone through the bushes and trees early and late in the day, everything was bathed in the tender green glow.
The sad liturgy of betrayal, parting, torment, and death enveloped Mary. Never had the events seemed so near, so ever-present. The spying Judas, who had lived with Jesus and known him intimately, betraying him for money: Lord James. The stalwart, brave, but in the end helpless Peter: Bothwell. The crowd, which had yelled “Hosanna!” and spread their cloaks, six days later crying for his crucifixion: the Lords and the mob at Edinburgh, screaming, “give us Barabbas!” and “burn the whore!” The religious leaders, who ought to have been the most just, planning the murder. Caiaphas, the high priest, who said it was expedient that one person should die for the people: John Knox. The Sanhedrin: Lords of the Covenant. The Roman officials, who were supposed to be unbiased, siding with the mob: the French, the English.
The parting with the disciples: Mary leaving Bothwell on that windy field of battle and watching him gallop off. More I could tell you, but you could not bear it now. Now comes the prince of this world.… Are you come out, as against a thief, with swords and with staves to take me? What accusation do you bring against this man? If he were not a malefactor, we would not have delivered him up un
Everyone scattered: Behold the hour cometh, yea, is now come, that you should be scattered, every man to his own, and shall leave me alone. The Hamiltons who never came, the Gordons who never came, the Borderers on Carberry Hill who melted away in the hot afternoon. Yes, her forces were scattered, in hiding, or had made their peace with the Lords.
Yet, in all the hours she spent praying, kneeling on the floor before the crucifix, she now knew what the cold eyes of that figure were telling her: If he had not been a malefactor, we would not have delivered him up to you. She was not innocent. She had loved Bothwell and taken him to her bed, and had wished in her heart to be delivered from Darnley. That someone had overheard that murmur deep within herself and carried it out must be her burden. The fact that Darnley had planned to murder her did not negate her own sin, for she had hated him in her heart long before that.
O dear Lord, she prayed, in the beginning of the week, have mercy on me and my sufferings. Deliver me from my enemies, and set me free. By the end of the week she simply said, O Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner.
* * *
Easter came in a blaze of glory, a brilliant, sparkling day that rattled the tree branches and caused them to swoop and swing. From the west a warm wind, laden with promise of summer and softness yet to come, blew across the island. The Laird provided a feast in the hall, and the garrison soldiers stuck dandelions in their buttonholes and played handball on the green. The Douglas girls put on their perfumed gloves and ate more of the steamed almond pudding and candied violets in syrup at dinner than they should have. In the late afternoon the entire castle enjoyed the spring day, strolling, singing, playing games on the newly sprung grass. Lady Douglas and Mary took hands and did a dance together. Lord Lindsay’s wife, heavily pregnant, sat on the grass with Mary Seton and applauded them. The wind lifted off her hat, and nimble Willie ran after it and retrieved it before it blew into the water.
* * *
April deepened and grew toward May. It had been a year since Bothwell had embarked on his daring gamble to make their marriage acceptable by abducting her to Dunbar. The very scents in the air, of lily of the valley, of hawthorn, brought it back to her so vividly that she dreamed of him night after night. In the dreams his presence was overlaid and imbued with another, heady feeling: freedom. They had ridden and loved and walked in freedom, and had not even known it, as fish are unaware of the water they swim in, but gasp and writhe when taken out of it.
She ached for freedom. To be able to go into a room without being guarded and watched. To be able to lie down without permission. To be able to change the faces she looked at and the view she saw day after day. Only in her dreams was she free, and then waking was painful.
The Laird’s wife was brought to childbed and old Lady Douglas was in attendance, and suddenly Mary was guarded less than before. Just to have those eyes, that presence, removed, was like removing chains. The new mother and grandmother were, for a little while, staying in the round tower apartments.
Mary wrote to Queen Elizabeth, hoping that an opportunity would arise for the letter to be carried out. Willie would manage somehow.
Madame, my Good Sister—
The length of my weary imprisonment, and the wrongs I have received from those on whom I have conferred so many benefits, are less annoying to me than not having it in my power to acquaint you with the realities of my calamities, and the injuries that have been done to me in various ways. It may please you to remember that you have told me several times “that, on receiving that ring you gave me, you would assist me in any time of trouble.” You know that Lord James has seized all I have. Melville, to whom I have often sent secretly for this ring, as my most precious jewel, says that he dare not let me have it. Therefore I implore you to have compassion on your good sister and cousin, and believe that you have not a more affectionate relative in the world. You should also consider the importance of the example practised against me.
I entreat you to be careful that no one knows that I have written to you, for it would cause me to be treated worse than I am now. They boast that their friends at your court inform them of all you say and do.
God keep you from misfortunes, and grant me patience and His grace that I may one day recount my calumnies to yourself, when I will tell you more than I dare to write, which may prove of no small service to yourself.
Your obliged and affectionate good sister and cousin,
Mary R.
From my prison at Lochleven.
She folded the letter and hid it inside her prayer book. So far they had not searched her devotional materials, as if anything Catholic were untouchable.
* * *
On the last day of April the weather played games all day. Mary awoke to a pelting rain, which seemed to soak into the very stones of the tower. She could hear the water dripping and oozing through cracks in the old walls. Outside, the ground could not absorb it all and pools of water studded the grassy courtyard. But by noon the clouds had fled, running across the sky like mythological maidens trailing their skirts with satyrs in pursuit, leaving blue skies behind.
The strengthening sun sparkled on the puddles and dripping leaves and, after an hour of warm mist, dried them up. After their drink, the flowers opened with vibrant colour and danced in the spring air.
The perfume, the warm mist, was sensuously intoxicating. No wonder they think witches come out tonight, Walpurgis Night, Mary thought. May Day and the night before—it’s magic, and powerful. She had to smile at herself. Before I came to Scotland, she thought, I had never heard of Walpurgis. But now I have learned more about witches than I ever cared to know.
A boat was approaching. Everyone turned to see who it was, and Mary’s heart leapt when she recognized George. He began waving, and the guards made ready to open the gates.
George! Something must be afoot! Trying not to let herself get too excited, Mary waited with the rest of the people as George emerged from the gateway. He did not look at her, but saluted his father warmly.
“George,” said the Laird, “you look well, but you know you are—”
“My conscience would not let me depart for France without a formal leave-taking,” he said. “I will not stay long. Where is my mother?”
“I will bring her. She will be pleased to see you.”
George bowed and, seemingly just looking about to amuse himself in the meantime, caught Mary’s eye. He nodded all but imperceptibly. Then he looked away.
Lady Douglas was hurrying toward her son, and then they embraced. Her arm about his shoulder, they walked off together across the green.
Was that a signal he had given her? Would they have no opportunity to speak? Mary decided to wait in the open and hope to see George as he was leaving.
But George was accompanied back to the boat by his parents, and all he could do was give a courtly bow in her direction.
That night, after supper, Willie was skulking about in the yard, kicking a ball and humming to himself. Mary descended from the stairway and walked casually over to him. His head was down and he was practising aiming at a specific stone at the base of the wall. Three out of four times he hit it.
“Very good,” said Mary, quietly, and Willie looked up and grinned. He reached down and picked up the ball and tucked it under his arm. Together they walked over to the gate, which was still open in the twilight.
“Only a few minutes,” warned one of the guards. “We leave for supper and lock the gates soon.”
Willie and Mary made their way down to the water’s edge. The setting sun had left the sky laced with garish pink clouds, which were reflected in the loch.
“No bonfires for the witches tonight,” said Willie. “But they’ll be blazing up in the Highlands, I’ve no doubt. We’re too civilized down here.” He laughed.
“Tomorrow is May Day,” said Mary. “Do you—is it celebrated here?”
May Day with Darnley, gathering flowers. May Day with Bothwell, shut up in the tower at Dunbar. May Day in Fr
“This year it will be,” he said. “I am to be Abbot of Misrule. And everyone is to do exactly as I say. They are to follow me and obey my commands.”
“Good evening,” said a voice from near the boats, which were tied up nearby.
Mary jumped. She had not even been aware of anyone. But Willie had been. That must have been why his speech was so formal and distant. He replied, “Good evening, sir.”
A soldier came toward them in the gathering twilight. “Just securing the boats,” he said pointedly.
“Good,” said Willie.
The man disappeared inside the gate.
“We flushed him out,” said Willie quickly. “Good. Now we are alone, for two or three minutes. Now listen: all is in readiness for your escape. That is why George came. He is not going to France, but needed an excuse to be seen in the vicinity.”
A creak from the gate. The soldiers were getting ready to close it. “Come inside!” someone called.
“We come,” said Mary.
“During the May Day celebrations, I will steal the keys from the Laird during dinner. When I have them, I will signal to you. Be inside the tower and disguised, ready for flight. Do exactly what I say.”
Even walking as slowly as possible, they were now approaching the gate. “I will disable their boats. We will escape in one boat. Bring no one with you. Tell no one. I will—Good evening, officer.” He greeted the guard. “Sleep well, Your Majesty.”
* * *
Mary lay awake in the dawn, hearing the birds begin to chatter even before it grew light. So this was the day. She dared not dwell on it, lest she grow so excited she somehow betray all the plans. Best not to think about it. But as she arose, she could not help glancing round the tower room and wondering if she had spent her last night in it. Pray God that I never waken in here again! she thought.
She readied her shabby clothes once again, hoping they did not retain the bad luck of the last failed attempt. The absence of the Douglas women made it so much easier to make ready. She gathered up a few of her things, putting them inconspicuously in a pile that, if opportunity afforded, she could scoop up and carry with her.